


Croon

by Katsitting (Nekositting)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Horcrux Hunting, M/M, Not Beta Read, Torture, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-10-28 05:19:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10824606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nekositting/pseuds/Katsitting
Summary: He froze at the turn that his thoughts had gone—the warmth no longer a pleasant tingle, but an oppressive weight he was all too familiar with. It was scalding, shredding through his mind as if it were not flesh, but cheap paper.Harry.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone.
> 
> This is my first contribution to this particular ship. I hope you enjoy and leave me comments with your constructive feedback on characterization. I appreciate any sort of response.

_Harry._

He heard the sibilant voice whisper into his mind. The sound a decadent croon that drowned his senses with warmth and promises of pleasure—of ecstasy he never knew existed.

It whispered into his mind, settled into the space between awareness and unconsciousness. It burrowed itself there until he could do nothing to resist— _only feel_.

His body felt lax, the most relaxed he had felt in _years_ since he had set out on his mission to destroy Voldemort’s Horcruxes.

He should be frightened by the whispers in his mind—should be thrashing and fighting the sensations with every ounce of determination in his being.

But he could not.

His body laid pliant in his bunk, allowing the whispers of comfort and safety to settle him further into the cocoon he had made between himself and his sheets.

It felt safe. It felt wonderful.

How could he resist when it made such sweet promises?

_Harry Potter._

It sounded familiar, but he could not quite place where he had heard the voice before. Was it the voice of a faceless ally he could not bring to mind? He tried to trace the source of the familiarity—tugging his mind for some sort of memory, but the warmth settling into the very marrow of his bones, impeded him.

It cooed at him—pulled him away from trying to recognize the source with an ease he should have been wary of. Beautiful things always came with a heavy price. He had learned that very lesson watching memory after memory of a young Tom Riddle—of meeting the transparent body of the Diary when it had come to suck the very soul out of Ginny Weasley.

He could never forget the decadent sound of his voice—of the honeyed promises of brighter futures for those that obeyed him, of the silky web of lies and flattery he would weave for those that were too trusting to disbelieve, of the beautiful face that hid the poison beneath his flesh.

He froze at the turn that his thoughts had gone—the warmth no longer a pleasant tingle, but an oppressive weight he was _all_ too familiar with. It was _scalding_ , shredding through his mind as if it were not flesh, but cheap paper.

_Harry._

He felt a scream threatening to come out of his throat—a desperate and angry yell that he wanted to release, but could not.

He recognized the voice now. How could he have been so dense to have forgotten where he had heard it before? He had spent nights with Dumbledore, watching and listening to the voice as he interacted with his professors, with his peers—of watching onyx eyes, and charming smiles on the face of a monster that everyone, save for Dumbledore, failed to recognize.

How could he have forgotten? He fought the state of peace that the voice had led him into, pulled away from the coos and the promises of ecstasy that lay inches underneath his flesh. He was a complete idiot— _how could he have not recognized **his** voice? _

He felt like the burning would eat him alive—fighting the sensation, trying to find the source of where the fire licked so viciously against his fingers, his hands, his legs, _his chest—_

The horcrux.

A memory flashed of him slipping the locket around his neck before bed—Hermione’s shift having come to an end moments before.

His chest was on _fire._ And he squirmed to try to find some way to remove it from his body—to sever the connection that lay between him and the monster’s soul. But he could not—his mind thrashed and shouted, but his body refused to move.

He was growing more aggravated—the frustration morphing to anger when he could not even open his eyes. He was frozen in his bunk, his friends fast asleep and none the wiser as to his predicament. He struggled against the force, determined to fight until he no longer had the energy to.

He heard a soft laugh—the sound more of a hiss than any conventional sound he had ever heard before. He froze when he realized it did not come from his own mind, but from above him. He wanted to open his eyes to see for himself that it was an illusion—a dream, _a horrible dream_ rather than actual reality.

He felt something cold smooth across his cheek, the sensation drawing an unwanted shudder from his body. He willed himself to _bloody_ move, but he could not move away from the touch as it traveled from his cheek to where his scar was hidden beneath his hair. The touch did not burn as he expected it to—he felt absolutely nothing at all.

At first.

Heat rushed through him so swiftly he had no time to brace himself for it—his body was jolted into awareness so quickly he had no time to even realize his body could move again. He was _drowning._

The heat swallowed him into its wide maw—consuming him whole, and making his stomach jolt with a sensation he found _entirely_ inappropriate. The pleasure was overbearing, and he squirmed in his bed to find some sort of relief from the pressure that settled into his belly and refused to lessen.

His eyes were screwed shut, his fingers catching onto his sheets to scramble for something to ground him to the earth. To the fact that he was so _bloody_ aroused it was bordering on painful.

The pleasure was too much, the heat unbearable, and he almost opened his lips to beg for the monster to stop touching him. To just bloody stop before he _went completely mental._ But he bit his tongue—fought the need to beg.

Pain he understood. Pain he could fight. But this pleasure, it was too much for his bones to take. His stomach quivered when he felt something cold— _his hand—_ settle onto his bare stomach. It did not caress the flesh, but the hand simply remained there. Another point of contact that drove Harry insane as he tried to resist the sensations.

He almost found himself wishing it was pain—the embarrassment burning beneath his skin and the humiliation would be infinitely less if it was pain making him squirm and twitch.

“Stop,” he broke, his voice weak and foreign to his ears as he tried to pronounce the simple word. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, but he managed to say it without embarrassing himself further.

“No.” The response was swift, coming directly from above him. It was the familiar sound of Tom Riddle from the diary, except—

Harry groaned then when the sensation rather than abate, intensified. He could not help the sounds of pleasure that escaped him, and felt his cheeks burn with further humiliation when the man chuckled above him.

“Does it not feel pleasurable, Harry?” Harry wanted to yell at him—to throw a fist into the bastard’s face. But he simply curled further into himself when another jolt of want overcame him. He was too humiliated to even open his eyes and catch sight of the incarnation of Riddle that was doing this to him. He had been desperate to move and see, but he’d rather be put through the _Cruciatus_ curse than have to face the man.

He felt Riddle’s hand finally detract from his forehead after what felt like hours of pleasure squirming in his belly, but the sensation did not dampen. Harry groaned in frustration when no relief could be found, his cock straining in his trousers as he tried to ignore the ache.

How was the monster able to make him feel this way? He had _murdered_ his parents. He had given the order that had taken away Sirius from his life. He had given the order that had stamped out the light from Cedric’s eyes—

“You and I are one in the same, Harry.” Riddle whispered to him, his breath fanning across his face as he spoke. Harry flinched away from the sensation, entirely unsure as to when he had gotten so close. He cried out when the hand at his belly finally moved, smoothing over his quivering stomach, and onto the waistband of his trousers. His hand was pure ice, but it made the sensitive skin beneath the fabric of his trousers tingle pleasantly.

“D-don’t touch me.” He moaned out—his voice cracking at the edges when Riddle’s hand did no such thing. In fact, the hand crept lower until it laid above the obvious tent in his trousers. He wanted to crawl into the ground and be swallowed alive rather than face the reality that the man that murdered his parents was _groping him_.

He panted desperately, trying to think of some way to fight the heavenly sensation that rendered him incapable of escape.

Harry gasped when Riddle’s hand squeezed him, then—all thought of escape overtaken completely by the wave of pure want and sensation that overcame him.

He was behaving like ruddy school boy, but he could not help it when the warmth burned the edges of his mind. It ate up his rationale—the overbearing desire lapped at him until all he could do was arch into the hand closed around his clothed cock.

He cried out when Riddle’s hand released him quickly before slipping inside his trousers—the mismatch of hot and cold extracting the noises he fought to swallow down. He clung to the sheets beneath him for purchase, all sound drowned by the sound of his blood rushing through his ears.

He could feel the warmth building in his body—the palm closed tightly around the base of his cock and remained still. Riddle’s hand was so cold, it should have snapped him back to his senses right then and there, but that _heat._ He did not know where it came from—where the connection between the two lay that had Harry scrambling desperately for some semblance of control.

He twisted in his sheets, unsure if he is trying to buck off the hand or get him to move.

He was not sure what it was he wanted anymore.

He bit his tongue to stop the plea that bubbled in his mouth—the taste of copper and pain bringing him back to himself momentarily to finally find the courage to look above him.

Dark eyes were looking back into his own—darker than the chasm he had visited with Dumbledore when searching for the locket. He felt his insides curdle with unease—a discomfort that seemed to snap him back to his senses.

He shot out from underneath Riddle, his body wired with unrepressed energy as he fled from his bunk as if the devil himself were at his heals.

His friends did not stir in their sleep despite the noise—his feet catching on the table in the center of the room in his haste to get out from underneath the specter.

He turned, searching for his wand but stopped himself when he caught sight of Riddle rising from his bunk. His hand held an all too familiar piece of wood, and Harry wanted to groan in frustration.

Shit.

He moved around the bunk with an elegance that looked too jarring for the rustic feel of the tent. His posture was straight, his strides long and confident as if he were preparing to give a speech rather than chase after him. It would have been comical in some other situation had he not been attacked mere seconds earlier.

His body still felt the uncomfortable effects of his advances—blood still pooling between his legs and seeming to resist all of his mental efforts to dissipate.

He caught Riddle’s eyes from across the room, and shuddered at the hungry gleam in them. The sight made him step back momentarily, before he paused mid-step when he realized what exactly he was doing.

He was not a coward.

“You’re not real.” Harry spoke more confidently than he felt, the words breaking the pervasive silence in the tent. He turned his eyes to search for his friends, but found them sleeping still in their own bunks.

Somehow undisturbed by the racket he had made.

“This is either a dream or I am simply hallucinating.” Harry stated, unsure if he was trying to convince himself or the man mere feet away. Harry again turned his attention to where his friends lay asleep, and he was at a loss as to what this could possibly mean. There was simply no way Hermione or Ron could sleep through this.

“This is all very real, Harry.” Harry startled when the words came closer than he expected, his attention turning back to the man, but finding that he was mere inches away.

Harry struck, more a reflex than an intentional strike as he sought to widen the space between the two.

Riddle caught his fist easily in his, not once releasing his wand from his hand, before twisting it until Harry’s arm was wrung behind his back. He shouted from the sharp pain that crawled from his shoulder then—his toes curling for some sort of release from the pressure that continued to build.

Riddle pulled Harry’s arm higher, the soft laughter behind Harry’s neck the clearest of indications that he was enjoying himself at Harry’s expense. Harry kicked back, but Riddle pushed his leg out to deflect the blow.

He felt the air cackle with magic before his body froze—no sound of the magic words said, but the effects clearly felt when Harry could no longer struggle and fight his way out of Riddle’s embrace.

“Now what to do with you?”

Riddle levitated him then from the ground—his body unmoving as he took him right back to his bed. He felt his horror and embarrassment mount with each second as Riddle moved towards him.

“ _No_ —”

“Harry!”

Harry gasped, his ears ringing as he tried to make out where he was. Hermione and Ron stood above him—their faces unrecognizable without his glasses. He could not quite make out their expressions, but Hermione’s tight grip on his shoulder was testament enough that they were concerned.

“Thank goodness, you’re alright. You were shouting in your sleep.” She started, pausing so as to give Harry a moment to understand that he was dreaming moments earlier. “Mate, you were making all sorts of noise. Are you okay?” Ron spoke up then, bringing a slight flush to Harry’s cheek when he recalled the nature of his dream.

Harry sincerely hoped he didn’t say anything strange in his sleep. He’d about die of mortification, otherwise.

“Just a nightmare. Y-you know…” Harry cleared his throat, quickly willing away the embarrassment.

 “Okay, but if you can’t wear it any longer. We are here.” Hermione squeezed his shoulder in support, and moved away, her blurred face scrunching with concern at—what he was sure—was his overheated face. “’Mione’s right. If you can’t take it...”—Ron paused for a moment, watching Harry’s face for what Harry felt was an eternity.

“We’ll be outside, if you need anything, Harry.” Hermione yanked Ron up by the scruff of his shirt, then.  “C’mon!” Ron blubbered for a moment, before Hermione literally dragged him out of the tent to give Harry much needed space.

Bless her.

Harry sighed, bringing his face into his hands. He really hoped there wasn’t a repeat. He doubted he could handle another of those dreams.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't really know what happened. I thought I was going to leave this a one-shot. I wrote an entirely too long follow-up that most definitely is the end of this arc.
> 
> Leave comments or kudos if you enjoyed the piece.

Harry refused to sleep.

He did not care that he was being a stubborn git about the entire thing. But he simply could not go through another night of dreaming with the horcrux wrapped around his neck.

One night with _that_ dream was more than enough to last him a life time.

So that was how he found himself sitting at the dining table, eyeing his bed with increasing distrust. It was his turn to wear the locket, and he knew that he could not sleep if there was some sort of chance that he’d have a repeat of his dream from two nights before.

He was exhausted, but one night without rest would not be the end of the world. He’d been through worse.

He reclined against the chair and turned his attention to where his friends were sleeping peacefully. Harry knew that the locket took more out of them than they let on. Ron had grown more gaunt and restless since they had begun sharing the locket. Even Hermione looked strained from where he can see despite the placid look to her now. Her hair had lost its shine and had grown more unruly with their continued stay in the tent.

It was not an ideal situation to be in, but this was the price they had paid when they had set out on their mission.

Harry sighed before turning his attention back to the book in front of him; a book he had snatched from Hermione’s things to help distract himself from his exhaustion. He stared into the letters without quite seeing the words—completely uninterested in the drivel, but unwilling to risk reclining on his bed.

 _That_ , he thinks _, would be a complete disaster knowing my luck_.

So he forced himself to focus on another of chapter of _Brewing Techniques for the Inquisitive Witch._

He truly wondered why Hermione even owned such a thing. He was pretty sure she knew every technique by heart, if the sorry state of the book was any indication. It was worn—the edges near ready to fall apart and the pages yellowed with age. He could see where she had written on the margins of the book, and he noted that there were even some critiques on particular techniques used for the brewing of rather complex potions.

_Of course she—_

He froze when he felt something like a warm breath creep up the back of his neck. The sensation was unpleasant, standing the hairs at the nape of his neck up in unease. He jerked forward, scrambling away from the table to catch sight of what it was that could have alerted him.

There was absolutely nothing behind him, but he could not stop the shiver that crawled up his spine. He was sure he had felt something earlier. He could not have imagined that.

Could he?

He whirled around the tent, then moved to where his friends rested.

There was nothing to find there, except for the soft sounds of Hermione’s breathing and Ron’s loud snoring. He cut his gaze to the entrance of the tent—eyeing the opening warily before turning to survey the rest of the tent.

The chair he had been sitting on was a good foot away from the table. It was rather surprising to Harry that it had not toppled to the ground with the haste that he had moved. He winced when he caught sight of the book he had been reading on the floor. The book was face down on the ground, its pages bent from where Harry could see.

Hermione was going to kill him for that.

He walked back to the chair and grabbed the book carefully from the ground on his way. He surveyed it, breathing out a sigh of relief when it was not in worse shape. He would live to see another day then, thankfully. He dragged the chair back to the table, and finally sat back down.

He had just about settled on the chair again when he felt the familiar draft creep up his nape once more, except now, he was _sure_ that he had not imagined it. He flinched away, but felt his stomach drop when he could not move. His arms were frozen on the table—the sudden trembling of his fingers the only sign of his body resisting the confinement.

He struggled against the force, his head jerking to and fro in an attempt to shake it off. He could see his wand just where he had left it on the table. It was mere inches away—a tantalizing fixture in his eye that he desperately tried to reach for, but was unable to.

He felt ice chill his veins when familiar— _too familiar_ —fingers touched the back of his neck. The sensation did not drown him in euphoric pleasure, but he still felt an anxious energy bubbling in his gut. He tried to breathe in slowly to settle the fear that came with the touch, but he found little comfort in his short breaths.

He had grown to fear this more than any pain he had ever been subjected to, or could possibly suffer through, at the hands Voldemort. Losing his identity—his sense of self—at the mere touch of this man was far more terrifying than any dark curse that could be flung at him. To hurt and suffer was an entirely physical affair. He would still be Harry at the end of the pain.

He was not so sure he would be himself if he felt that overwhelming pleasure again.

“Did you miss me, _Harry_ ,” the voice purred into his ear. “Because I certainly missed your charming company.”

Harry swallowed audibly when the hand continued to caress his neck. The foreign sensation of Riddle’s fingers making Harry’s breaths come in even faster. His mind battled to regain control of himself somehow—to move away from the fingers that took such liberties with him, but his body was completely beyond his control.

When had he fallen asleep? _How_ could he have allowed the book to literally push him into Riddle’s clutches? He should have noticed he was no longer awake from the moment he realized he could see without his glasses. Just now noticing that the comforting weight of the metal frame was absent.

 “Don’t touch me.” Harry bit out, grateful that his words did not belie the true unease he felt at being in such a vulnerable position. It was far better than how he had been the last time the Locket had decided to tamper with his dreams, but it was still a far cry from comfortable.

“Now, now, Harry. You were not complaining the last time I visited.” Harry hissed when Riddle licked the shell of his ear, drawing from him a helpless shiver. “If I recall correctly,” the voice whispered into his ear, the soft touches at the back of Harry’s neck gliding from his quivering skin and into his unruly locks. “You could hardly contain your excitement.”

Nails scratched his scalp pleasantly, and Harry tensed when the fingers suddenly pulled harshly, sinking into the locks before forcefully pulling Harry’s head up to stare up into the ceiling of the tent. Harry could only make out the top of Riddle’s head, but the Locket quickly remedied that by leaning in, obstructing Harry’s much safer view of the tent’s ceiling.

“ _Shut up!_ ” Harry all but snarled from his position, avoiding the inquisitive stare of the man above him.

The position was uncomfortable, but Harry had been through worse scrapes. Riddle had yet to overwhelm Harry’s will with the strange warmth, and he was grateful for the small mercy that it was. It gave Harry the time to clear his head and think of what he could possibly do to get out of this mess.

He was unable to move, but that did not mean Harry would just roll over. Harry was all too aware of the flair for dramatics the older man had—his younger self had it, and it would not be too much of a stretch to assume that this version of Riddle had it as well. Harry just needed to exploit it for as long as possible—distract him until he finally woke up from this nightmare.

“Why are you doing this? What do you gain from doing these thing to me?” This was a question that had been burning in the back of Harry’s mind since his unfortunate experience with the Locket. It had kept him distracted enough in the waking world to have caused great concern in Hermione.

Even Ron had noticed how distracted Harry had been as of late.

The shadows in Riddle’s face did nothing to calm Harry’s nerves, both emphasizing and hiding the man’s features. All that Harry could really make out was the glimmer in the man’s eye—so intense it felt like they were quite literally touching him. The look in them reminded Harry easily of that of a mad scientist—scrutinizing its quarry as if some hidden meaning could be found. It was like being dissected without the blade, a slow unravel without the pain. Harry felt like a puzzle Riddle was trying to decipher and it set him completely on edge.

But he’d gladly suffer through it if it kept the Locket distracted.

The silence was heavy in the tent. It made Harry hyper aware of his own strangled breaths and his rapidly beating heart. He wondered if Riddle could hear it with how close the man was—if Riddle could feel the rush of adrenaline coursing through Harry’s veins.

Harry was uncertain but he did not let it show—his eyes hard but taking care to avoid meeting the man’s gaze directly. Riddle was already a proficient _legilimens_ when he had created this particular horcrux, Harry was convinced. Riddle was still very human, but he had long shed the skin of his younger, more inexperienced self.

Riddle was almost a completely different person from who he was as the Diary. Almost.

“You _feel_ very familiar, Harry Potter.” Riddle ignored Harry’s question—his tone reverent and deep as he spoke. Harry had never heard his name said in such a way—it twisted his stomach and sent blood rushing up his neck. It made him grind his teeth, the conflicting tones in the man’s voice throwing him completely.

The man’s voice made Harry’s name sound like a sin. As if his name was a carefully guarded secret meant to be unveiled only in the darkened corners of a room. It was the most confusing thing Harry had ever experienced in his life—more confusing than realizing he was a wizard at the young age of eleven.

Harry clenched his jaw, repressing the unease and confusion in favor of trying to calm himself down. He did not understand why he was reacting in such a way—he had been through worse. He had _heard_ worse. Hell, he had faced death when he was only an infant—before he even knew of the life he was going to live. What made this dream so bloody different? _Why_ was he reacting this way at all?

“Your soul calls out to me. I cannot say I have ever encountered something quite like you.” Riddle continued and leaned in further into Harry’s space. Harry tried to pull his head back, to press it more firmly against the chair, but Riddle’s firm grip on his head kept him still.

“It makes me want to tear you open—,” Riddle whispered the words, and a spark of alarm settled in Harry’s chest at the hunger he could hear in the otherwise steady sound of Riddle’s voice. It gave nothing away, but at the same time, it spoke greatly of Riddle’s interest. “To unravel you so completely until all your secrets are mine, and mine alone.”

Harry yelped when the grip on his hair became painfully tight, the force of it pulling Harry onto his feet, before being shoved unceremoniously onto the table. It happened so quickly that Harry barely had time to realize he was pressed against the table.

“H-hey! Stop that.” Harry protested, feeling the familiar warmth prickling at his skin. He grasped onto the edges of the table and used it to propel himself back, realizing that the spell keeping him immobile had broken. When Riddle made to grab Harry’s leg, Harry kicked out, and scrambled further onto the table. His elbow pressed against something smooth and round, the spark of connection reminding Harry that his wand was still on the table where he had left it.

He twisted his arm to grab onto it, and swiftly turned it on Riddle. Poised and ready to attack should the man try to touch him again.

“ _Don’t_ even think about it.” Harry was breathing harshly as he watched the man furrow his brow, but otherwise maintain a carefully blank face. Harry could just picture the way the cogs in Riddle’s brain were turning—charting and analyzing how to best take advantage of the situation.

Harry would not allow it. He’d sooner die than allow it.

Harry kept a tight grip on his wand, unwilling to blink should Riddle at that moment decide to attack. He moved slowly back, taking the opportunity that he had to get himself off the table. Harry did not release the breath he was holding until his feet were safely on the ground. He did not look away from Riddle, however, not yet far enough from the man to do so.

He backed away to the opposite side of the room, feeling that once he had quite a few feet between them that it was safe.

The table in the center was just an added bonus to the arrangement.

“You’re going to stop invading my dreams.” Harry declared, eyeing the Locket warily when he did not try to close the distance between them. “You’re going to stop doing these things to me, and you’re going to stay as far away as possible.”

Riddle cocked his head to the side in response—his expression blank, his eyes smoldering with unrepressed heat.

“ _Incarcerous_.” Harry shouted when he saw Riddle suddenly tense—as if he were about to jump into motion. Riddle twisted away from the spell, and suddenly it was Harry that was scrambling away to maintain the safe distance he had created.

If Riddle touched him, it was game over.

“ _Stupefy_.”

Harry launched another spell, noticing that Riddle had strategically backed him into a corner in the tent—his back to the kitchen, and his side to the opening that led to his bunk. Riddle said nothing as Harry continuously moved away from the man, casting stunner after stunner in hopes that at least _one_ would hit.

The only indication that the man was enjoying himself was the predatory gleam in his eyes.

It was completely ridiculous.

Harry yelped when Riddle finally cast— _fucking silently_ — feeling the curse graze his shoulder in its path. It burned immensely, and Harry quickly turned to gauge the state of his shoulder. Harry felt rather than heard Riddle move, immediately twisting from Riddle’s fingers. It had been too close a call.

Harry was smiling in triumph, utterly relieved and satisfied that he managed to avoid him—if albeit it had been careless of him to turn his attention from the locket for even a second.

He took a look at Riddle’s face and felt the color in his face drain, the predatory smile on Riddle’s face revealing Harry’s blunder much too late.

It was the only warning Harry had before he felt something foreign snake around his wand hand, and wrench his arm back. Harry’s grip on his wand slipped, and Harry tried to yank his hand out of the bone crunching grip on his wrist to try to reach for it.

But Riddle caught it before Harry could fight off the hold.

Before Harry could think, more vines seemed to burst from the ground beneath him. They wrapped tightly around his left arm, yanking it behind his back and away from where it could do some serious damage. The vines twisted around his ankles—the grip unyielding as Harry struggled against his bindings.

Harry glared into Riddle’s smug face, and snarled when Riddle caressed his wand as if it was some sort of pet.

“Phoenix feather.” Harry heard Riddle murmur as he turned his dark eyes to Harry’s wand, completely enraptured by the wood. Harry struggled against the vines, feeling them tighten the more he fought against them. His bones felt like they were close to being crushed, but still, Harry fought on. “Now _this_ is rather curious.”

Harry felt the vines clench even tighter, the grip crushing so tightly against his bones that Harry barely managed to bite back his groan of pain. He glared angrily at Riddle, watching as the same spidery fingers that had touched Harry moments earlier, continued to caress the wand in an almost awed fashion.

“You get more and more interesting…” Riddle paused in his touch, and finally deigned Harry with his attention. Harry bared his teeth at Riddle, his eyes flashing warningly when Riddle pocketed Harry’s wand and approached where Harry stood completely bound.

“Stay the bloody hell away from me!” Harry all but shouted as Riddle closed the distance between them, forcing Harry to crane his head up to look at Riddle in the face. His eyes were hooded, the darkness glittering brightly with something Harry could not put a name too. Harry continued to struggle despite Riddle’s close proximity, taking care to avoid touching him lest the strange warmth from earlier manifest once more.

“I don’t bloody care how interesting you find me, just stay the hell out of my dreams!” Harry shouted as the man continued to watch him. Riddle did not even seem to be breathing with how still he stood. The only indication that the man was even alive was the way his eyes moved—watching each individual movement Harry made.

Harry hated how helpless he was—this feeling of powerlessness more humiliating than if he were writhing at the end of Riddle’s torture curse. At least, he could move and fight. There was nothing he could do here.

His stomach clenched uncomfortably when Riddle finally moved, Harry’s shoulders tensing in fearful anticipation when Riddle closed the distance between them, shoving Harry further into the wall of the tent—the opening to the kitchen at his right.

“S-stay back.” Harry’s voice faltered when Riddle lifted his hand and pressed his fingers against Harry’s cheek. Harry jerked—feeling the familiar warmth start to tingle from that point of contact.

“I wonder-,” Riddle purred, slipping his leg suddenly between Harry’s parted legs. Harry gasped from the contact and tried to back away, but found that there was nowhere for him to go. Riddle had cornered him completely—like a mouse in the face of a snake’s own trap. “-if it is me that you fear or if it is your own weakness when we touch?”

Harry shuddered when the warmth began to spread from where Riddle’s hand touched him. “Does it scare you how much you crave me,” Riddle’s voice became a soft croon, his face leaning into Harry’s. His eyes were glittering like the darkest obsidian, trapping Harry’s own emerald gaze easily—devouring him so completely that Harry could scarcely breathe.

Harry closed his eyes just then, suddenly recalling that Riddle could cut through his mind like butter if he didn’t catch himself. He was afraid to have Riddle in his thoughts, but he was more afraid of having the man out of his sight.

Even if he could do little else but watch and listen.

The hand on his cheek suddenly gripped onto his chin, the dexterous fingers clenching onto Harry’s jaw so tightly that Harry opened his eyes to glare. Harry paused at the sight before him, the once inky blackness in Riddle’s eyes swallowed by the red in his irises.

They were as red as blood—pools that mesmerized as easily as they terrified. There were swirls of red—burgundy and auburn adding a depth to them that Harry had not been able to notice when Voldemort had been reborn at the end of his fourth year.

Harry swallowed audibly, transfixed by the sudden change in Riddle’s eyes. He could not look away any more than he could move, staring almost unblinkingly into the eyes of a beautiful creature that had caught its prey. He could feel memories—images of himself flashing behind his lids in rapid succession.

He could hear the whispers of the Locket, the beckoning of it as it drew Harry towards it when wrapped around Umbridge’s throat. He saw memory after memory of a young Tom Riddle inquiring about horcrux’s—the charming way that he spoke to Slughorn and riveted all that were subjected to his charm save for Dumbledore. He could hear his own thoughts and reflection—each instance that he called Riddle handsome in the safety of his mind. He recalled the memory of Voldemort coming alive—fire and brimstone coming from the hot coals of the cauldron as he burst from the liquid. He remembered how he wished Voldemort would drown—how he wished the ugly creature dumped inside cauldron would die before it came alive.

He saw every memory—every thought he’d had in vivid detail. As if he were reliving them again from the end to the beginning. It culminated with the very first memory—a memory Harry was still unsure was even his own because he was too young to have seen it. He heard his mother screaming for him—begging Voldemort to let her son live, and of Voldemort, in a rare instance, asking her to step aside. He could hear her final scream before blinding green light.

Harry wanted to be sick—the clenching in his stomach the only warning he had before he felt the remnants of his dinner escape his lips.

Riddle did not pay it any mind that Harry had vomited on both of them. He did not scrunch his nose in disgust nor did he seek to punish Harry despite the mess he had made on both of them. Harry could barely breathe through the shortness of his breath, his eyes still caught in Riddle’s gaze despite all rational thought begging him to look away.

To leave. To _run_.

“ _Stop.”_

Harry almost begged for it to stop, but caught himself before he could completely wound his own pride by making the word sound more of a demand than a plea. His mouth tasted foul—the bitterness at the back of his throat a reminder that he had completely spewed his insides out just seconds before. His throat felt incredibly tight and he glared weakly at the man that continued to hold his eyes hostage.

He had never experienced something like this before—legilimancy did not just _hold_ you captive like this. You could turn away, cast your sight elsewhere until the threat disappeared. It never forced you to unearth your secrets in such a manner.

But Riddle somehow did it, and that terrified him.

“You’re a _delight_.” Harry almost snorted at the comment, watching as Riddle’s grip on Harry’s chin clenched for a second before releasing it, and freeing Harry from the all-too familiar warmth. Harry almost sighed in relief when the spell between their gazes broke.

Harry immediately shut his eyes and vowed never to open them again in Riddle’s presence.

“The Chosen one, the Boy-Who-Lived, _Harry Potter_ —all iterations of your paramount role in the war brewing outside of your dreams.” Harry felt the air around his body tingle pleasantly, not needing to hear the spell to know that Riddle had cleaned up the vomit.

It did not eliminate the filthy feeling Harry felt in his mind, however. Riddle had plundered Harry’s mind so silently and quickly that Harry could not control his stomach. His mind had revealed secrets he cared not to show. Harry clenched his hands into fists in his frustration, renewing his struggles against the vines once more now that Riddle was not ripping through his mind anymore.

“Your friends have revealed all that they could about you, despite fighting my intrusions valiantly. I was under the assumption that I knew all there was to know about you.” Harry felt heat rush to his cheeks in anger, about to open his mouth to shut the bloody man up, but Riddle pressed one single finger against Harry’s lips.

The shock of it was enough to silence Harry. It was as if Riddle knew that Harry was about to speak.

“But neither of their minds could reveal just _how_ valuable you are.” Harry squirmed when the finger traced his bottom lip, almost as an afterthought as Riddle spoke. Harry was tempted to bite his finger, but the moment the thought came, Riddle’s thumb and forefinger seized Harry’s bottom lip.

It was most definitely a warning.

Harry almost laughed at the ridiculousness of the situation. But Harry swallowed it down. If he started laughing now, Harry was sure that he would not be able to stop it from shifting to loud screaming instead. He would not give the man the satisfaction.

All humor inside Harry vanished when Riddle again summoned the familiar warmth—the tingling making Harry’s lip tremble and burn uncomfortably. Harry tried to jerk his head away, to stop Riddle from completely humiliating him, but Riddle’s grip on his lip prevented him from escape.

Riddle’s fingers held onto his lip tightly, the nail pressed warningly against the delicate flesh. Harry could almost hear the threat there—to struggle would mean pain. Harry groaned in dismay when the heat spread from his lip and through his limbs, sweat forming at his brow. His arms began to tremble from the overwhelming sensations, his fingers clenching and unclenching as he tried to fight of the haze that so quickly overcame him. “Stop bloody doing that!” Harry shouted as the warmth continued on its path, the sensation like a poison coursing through his veins. He ignored the fact that his words sounded muffled—speaking around Riddle’s firm pressure on his lip.

“Why? You look quite exquisite trying to resist the connection between us.” Harry was prepared to make a scathing retort, but felt the words die in his throat when Riddle dug his knee more firmly between Harry’s legs. Harry’s eyes shot open in shock at the pleasure he felt, a moan tumbling from his lips instead of the insult he had prepared in his mind.

_Fuck._

Riddle’s fingers suddenly pushed into Harry’s mouth, his fingers catching Harry’s tongue effortlessly as Harry began to writhe. Harry made to bite on Riddle’s fingers, the heat curling in his belly not yet blinding enough to rob Harry of his senses.

But Riddle’s fingers squeezed tightly on Harry’s tongue, as if sensing Harry’s intentions, before grinding his knee more firmly against Harry’s crotch. Harry choked at the sudden pressure, the sensation enough of a distraction for Riddle to lean in close to Harry’s face and press their faces _too_ close.

Harry watched him behind half-lidded eyes, focusing on the space between Riddle’s eyes, on the sliver of flesh there, rather than the burning red of his irises. Harry had already made the mistake of looking Riddle in the eye once before, he refused to make the mistake again.

Riddle pressed his lips against Harry’s, the iciness of Riddle’s breath making Harry lose more of his composure. Harry had no clue when his lips had parted, when the iciness in Riddle’s breath crept inside Harry’s mouth, but it burned him. It was a fire so cold that it chilled Harry to the marrow of his bones.

It mattered not that it was ice—the warmth of Riddle tapping at their connection spread heat into him.

Harry felt sweat beading on his skin as he writhed underneath Riddle’s attentions. Harry tried to gather his thoughts, to fight off the haze that was slowly eating him from the inside, but Riddle’s knee was entirely too distracting.

He didn’t think he could last long if Riddle kept this up. He needed to do something, but Harry was hard-pressed to figure out just what that solution could be. Harry shuddered when he felt rivulets of his saliva drizzle down his chin, his mouth still stuffed with Riddle’s fingers. He wanted to bite down, but when the knee started to actually _move_ , all thought of that fled.

He wanted to close his eyes to avoid the fact that Riddle was watching his face as he unraveled so easily before him. He wanted to escape behind the comforting darkness of nothingness—to ignore the fact that Riddle was making sounds escape his lips that he never thought he could make.

But if he closed his eyes, Harry had the suspicion that it would be much _much_ worse. There was no telling what would happen if he gave in to that tempting escape.

Harry yelped when Riddle’s fingers were forcefully yanked from Harry’s mouth, the wet hand suddenly gripping the collar of Harry’s shirt. The motion left Harry gasping for air—taking it all in greedily now that Riddle’s finger were no longer in his mouth. Harry glared heatedly into the man’s face, ignoring the wetness on his chin.

Riddle’s eyes were burning, the heated gleam of them enough to dampen Harry’s relief at having his mouth Voldemort free. Harry scrambled for a way to distract him, his mind jumping from one idea to another when Riddle’s knee continued grind into him. His thoughts were jumbled—more a chain of words than actual complete thoughts in his mind, but he seized on them nevertheless. “You may have me here, T-tom. But _you’re_ nothing in the waking world.” Harry’s words came fast, hoping against all hope that he would just _bloody_ wake up.

Riddle perked at that, his movements pausing. This gave Harry all the room he needed. “You’re a mere shadow of who you used to be. You think you have all the cards? Don’t make me laugh.” Harry tried to anger him, channeling all the anger and helplessness within him; recalling all of what Riddle should hate, of what he most likely still _hated_. He had never been more grateful for his occulmency lessons with Snape, of all times. He may not have learned the skill, but Harry definitely learned how to dig into people’s weaknesses—to exploit them to get some sort of rise out of whoever was at the end of his sharp tongue.

Riddle’s shoulders tensed, the air around him becoming torrential and cold. Harry no longer felt the familiar warmth that had entirely consumed him, and he was grateful that his words seemed to be working.

“I am not _afraid_ of you. I just feel sorry for you and what you have turned yourself into.”

Like a rubber band pulled too tight, Harry could practically feel all of Riddle’s careful control snap.

Harry shouted when Riddle, rather than curse him to the ends of the earth, simply pushed closer until there was not a breath of space between them. The knee between Harry’s legs suddenly pushed so painfully between Harry’s legs that he had to bite his cheek to repress another scream from leaving his lips.

It was _unbearable._

But Riddle did not stop there, he continued to press and _press_ until his knee was practically a part of Harry. Harry’s eyes rolled to the back of his head from the indescribable pain, his mouth suddenly opening into a silent scream.

“You _dare!”_ The voice was artic, distracting Harry, albeit temporarily from the mounting pain. The tone made the hairs on Harry’s arms stand on end despite himself. “You dare to pity _me!”_ Harry swallowed audibly, not trusting himself to speak at all.

“I should rip off your insolent tongue,” and Harry feared he just might with the scathing tone it was delivered. “Bathe in your blood and your pitiful screams.” Harry was trembling all over—prepared for Riddle to do just that. But he was entirely unprepared for what came instead.

“ _Crucio.”_

And then Harry was screaming.

His skin felt as if it were being ripped from his muscles—the sensitive layer exposed inch by painful inch to the harshness of the air, before a burning, a _liquid_ fire¸ consumed him completely. Harry’s fingers were digging into the palms of his hands, the sting of his nails cutting through flesh a blip compared to the agony that consumed him. He was screaming so loud that he was shocked he had not strained his vocal chords from the force.

It felt like an eternity, but Harry was sure it had only been seconds since Riddle had cursed him. _Merlin_ , it needed to stop. He was going to lose his bloody mind. He writhed and struggled against the vines, against Riddle’s touch, against the pain that slowly ate away at his sanity.

Harry did not think the pain could get any worse, but somehow, the spell grew _worse_ the longer Riddle held him under it. Harry tried to fight off the tears that were burning at the corners of his eyes, to not reveal weakness because this was Harry’s goal in the first place. To suffer—to feel pain beyond one’s imagination was far more preferable than what Riddle would have done to him had he not acted.

He wanted to convince himself that this was the desired outcome, but it was becoming harder to believe that when the curse became more and more unbearable. Harry’s throat felt raw from his continuous screaming; the sound of it making his ears ring from the pitch of his screams. _It had to stop—he needed it to stop. It had to stop. Stop. STOP!_

And then it stopped. Harry’s cheeks were clammy with his sweat and tears. He could barely comprehend that the pain had ended, turning his attention to the man that was still pressed flush against him.

Riddle’s eyes were no longer glittering with unrepressed rage, but now seemed amused. Almost impressed as he watched Harry struggle to breathe after spending a rather unpleasant time under Riddle’s torture curse.

“ _Clever_ , very clever.” Harry swallowed as the pressure against his crotch eased, the knee no longer attempting to crush his pelvis. Harry felt ice trickle down his veins at the almost pleased note in Riddle’s tone. The man was absolutely mad. “Distracting me by exploiting what angers me most.” Harry trembled when Riddle’s face pressed against Harry’s, the man’s lips touching Harry’s ear.

Harry was not sure if it was Riddle’s presence or the curse that had him shaking. But he would rather die than acknowledge that Riddle’s presence unsettled him. Not to his face, anyway.

“Perhaps, pain is not the proper way to deal with you.” Harry made to jerk his head away from Riddle’s closeness, but Riddle held fast, a tight grip on Harry’s head.

When had the man dug his fingers into is hair?

Riddle’s fingers pulled on his hair so hard that Harry was sure he would have a bald patch where Riddle’s hand held him. “Pain you are familiar with. But pleasure-,” Riddle paused, the hand that was not gripping Harry’s hair, catching onto Harry’s collar before ripping the fabric down the middle cleanly.

It was like a hot knife cutting through butter, except Riddle had quite easily torn the offending garment with his bare hands. Harry, if this were any other situation, would be impressed. But the action only served to heighten the growing dread that latched onto the pit of his stomach.

Harry felt like he was going to be sick.

“Pleasure is something you know little of. And who can better teach you this lesson, than I?” Riddle whispered into Harry’s ear before the hand that had so easily torn off his shirt, clasped onto the waistband of his trousers, unhooking his belt.

“Let me go!” Harry felt the panic consume him—the fear and the heat that suddenly bloomed beneath his skin bringing back the shocking pleasure of the last time to the forefront of his mind.

“I think not. I find that your pleas will take on a different note soon enough.” Riddle laughed into Harry’s ear, and Harry’s legs shook when Riddle unbuttoned Harry’s trousers and unzipped them easily. Riddle did not bother with removing the garment all together—the vines wrapped around Harry’s legs did not allow for it.

However, Harry wasn’t sure if he was relieved or even more frightened at this.

“Y-you don’t have to do this!” Harry tried to say, the feeling of Riddle’s hairs tickling his neck doing little to calm him as Riddle shoved his hand into Harry’s trousers and seized his cock through the fabric. Harry jerked at the sudden heat of it, a choked moan escaping his lips.

“Oh?” Harry heard Riddle murmur, before Harry groaned as the heat all but burst beneath his skin, the feeling of Riddle’s hand wrapped so tightly around Harry’s cock making him flush a bright red. The heat was growing readily, again threatening to consume him and he did not know what to _bloody_ do. The last time, he had been able to save himself.

He was not so sure this time. Riddle would not fall for it a second time.

Last time, Riddle had only wanted to tease. It was a game to see how low Harry could unravel in his dreams. But this time, Harry was sure, this was an entirely different game. He could feel it in the tightness of Riddle hand around his cock, in the softness of Riddle’s dark hair as it tickled Harry’s neck, in the _mouth_ that puffed warm breaths against Harry’s ear.

When Riddle stroked him, Harry felt all the air in his lungs escape him. It was far better than the sound that wanted to burst out of his chest, of the moan that wanted to creep up his throat, but it was a reaction nonetheless. Harry tried to jerk away, but Riddle did not allow for him to move any more than necessary—his grip so tight that Harry was sure he’d have bruises.

He enveloped Harry completely, one of Riddle’s fingers prodding at the head of his cock before stroking him once more. The pace was slow, the shock of it alone making Harry’s toes curl from the pleasant sensation and from the overwhelming need that coiled in his belly. He tensed when the finger pressed more firmly, playing with the opening of his cock.

Harry did not want to look at what was happening, so he kept his eyes turned away. Riddle laughed softly against his ear, the sensation of his breath making him shudder and fidget as he fought off the growing pleasure.

He was drowning in it—the heat doing little for his sanity. His mind struggled to form coherent thought every time Riddle pressed his thumb against the head of his cock, every time he stroked him—his mind would just empty completely.

“You’re _weak_ , Harry. You dare to pity me, but when I do _this_ -“ Riddle stroked him roughly as he spoke, drawing a pleased whine from Harry. “-You unravel.” The words were filthy and it did little for Harry’s self-control as he continued to shudder and writhe from the steady pace Riddle had set. He could hear the sounds of Riddle’s hand stroking him, the wet sounds so loud in the total silence of the tent that Harry had a hard time ignoring it.

The humiliation was _immense._

“What does that make you, Harry? Look at you, wet and hard from having your cock touched by a killer.” Harry choked when Riddle steadily increased the pace, the tightness of Riddle’s hand somehow heightening his pleasure rather than dampening it.

It had to be the damn heat. There was no way Harry could possibly enjoy this.

“N-nothing. If you didn’t have that bizarre power, I wouldn’t be nearly as e—“ Harry wanted to curl into himself when Riddle’s lips kissed at his throat, the man’s teeth pressed too intimately against his pulse point. It was as much a threat as it was a promise—a reminder that Harry was completely exposed to him. That he was completely at Riddle’s mercy and that he could choose to make this better or worse for Harry.

“I wouldn’t be so certain of that, Harry. After all, this is _your_ dream.” The man purred, pausing from kissing Harry’s neck to concentrate on jerking Harry off. Harry could feel the heat and the pressure building inside him—the connection between them humming faintly as Harry writhed and groaned beneath the monster. He wanted to shout as much as he wanted to reach the peak that was steadily getting closer. “Have you not noticed that the heat has not robbed you of your mind? That you are perfectly capable of thinking of something other than pleasure?

Harry gasped when Riddle started to suck and lick at his neck, choosing to focus on the contact rather than the reality of Riddle’s words.

“You have far more control than you believe that you do. I am merely exposing the desires hidden so deeply in that little mind of yours.” Harry refused to acknowledge that Riddle had spoken, feeling so close to the edge now that it hardly mattered that Riddle was the one about to get him off. He felt his mind beg him to fight the heat harder, to berate the monster so that Harry would not cum.

But Riddle was a cruel man.

Harry came hard when the man savagely sunk his teeth into his neck—the steady stroking of his cock and the pain— _always the pain_ —pushing him over the edge. Harry’s throat felt tight, and he could not find it in himself to look at the man that rested his head against his shoulder.

The haze from his orgasm robbed him of his ability to respond.

“Until next time, _Harry_.”

And then Harry was awake, his pulse beating rapidly beneath his chest.

There was a heavy sheen of sweat on his skin as he tried to make sense of what just _bloody_ happened. His face was hot, his heart beating a fifty miles per second as he tried to make sense of what it was that Riddle had done. What Harry had _allowed_ him to do.

His trousers felt sticky, and Harry did not have the heart to move—to feel the evidence of what he had done in his dreams in the waking world. He felt a burning rage building steadily with each second that passed.

That _bastard._

He flung the horcrux to the opposite side of the tent, unable to curve his frustration when he realized with growing dread what Riddle had said.

Harry had been lucid the entire time. There was never a moment where his thoughts were entirely overwhelmed by the heat. Sure, he had felt it tantalizing his flesh—making him more susceptible to the man’s touch.

But his mind could think. He could respond, he could struggle. The dreams were his, and not Riddle’s.

_He was bloody lucid._

Harry did not want to think on that anymore. And so he didn’t.

Not when Ron stormed out of the tent and abandoned them.

Not when Harry and Hermione had almost been killed by Voldemort’s snake.

Not when Harry almost drowned when the Locket tried to kill him in the lake.

Not when the Locket had tried to sway Ron—to show him images that would never truly be.

Not when Ron bashed Gryffindor’s sword and destroyed it.


End file.
